


Deduce My Heart

by Kiarawolf



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Death, FIx It, Fix It Fic, Fix-It, Hospitals, Kissing, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sherlock - Freeform, s4 fix it, season four fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:33:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9342449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiarawolf/pseuds/Kiarawolf
Summary: Season Four Fix itSo after TFP aired, I went out for a walk, got angry, got sad, got angry again, and wrote a fix-it fic. I’ve not been an active part of TJLC but I’ve been a follower and a believer for a long time now. Thanks so much to Rebbeca for the TJLCE videos, they were brilliant and insightful and a million times more entertaining than the mess I just watched. This short fic is based off the EMP meta written by Nattie. I can’t remember where I first read the idea of John thinking Mary was cheating on him with Sherlock, but please pm me if you want that credited to you! I’m so sorry, everyone. This is how I’m choosing to fight back.





	

  When he opens his eyes, John’s there.

‘Sher—’ John chokes. ‘ _Sherlock._ ’

  White ceiling. Dripping IV. Beeping monitor. Deduction: _I’m in a hospital_.

‘Why are you crying?’ Sherlock tries to be crass about it, but the words carry weight anyway. His throat feels dry, scratched; how long as he been here?

  John laughs, whipping the evidence away with the back of his hand. ‘Come here, you idiot.’ Except it’s John who comes to Sherlock, slinging an arm around his chest and burring his nose in his neck. ‘I thought we’d lost you.’

  Ghosts and babies and violin-playing sisters; all the hazy threads of thought in Sherlock’s mind halt, frozen, as he takes in the way John’s breath feels against his neck. John’s hand is over his bullet wound, thumb stroking softly.

   _Bullet wound?_ Reality spins. _Mary_. ‘John, John listen to me, you’re in danger—’ The words hurt his throat. His heart monitor sounds distressed.

‘Hey, calm down.’ John, regrettably, lifts his head; but the hand stays. ‘You just need to focus on getting better, right? You’ve been in a coma—’

‘In a coma? That’s ridiculous, preposterous, utter tripe—’

‘Sherlock.’ John’s tone is a warning.

‘You don’t understand, I haven’t been in a coma, I’ve been in my _mind palace_ , John—’

‘No, stop it. You stop that right now. You’ve not been on some bloody holiday, Sherlock, not while I’ve been sitting here, watching the life drain out of—no. I’m a doctor, Sherlock, I know a coma when I see one.’

  The linen is fresh changed, it feels crisp under his hand. There’s no dust in the room. A small window looks out at another window. ‘Fine, it doesn’t matter. None of that _matters_ , John.’ Sherlock tries to sit up but the wound in his chest stabs pain through every movement. He gets to halfway, laying sort of upwards on the pillows. He reaches for the needles in his arms and closes his fist around their trailing cords—John, of course, stops him before he can jank them out.

‘Just what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’m being drugged, John. Janine… I think… It’s hard to make sense of things, when exactly I went under, but I think it was Janine.’

‘Janine’s drugging you? Sherlock, she hasn’t been here since two days ago.’

‘Yes, exactly. Do keep up, John. And Mary? How many times has Mary been to see me?’

  John pulls his hand away from where it had been resting on Sherlock’s chest. ‘That was the first word you said, you know. When you woke up. “Mary”.’ John puts a sing-song intonation on the name, as if it’s some great joke. No-one’s smiling.

‘John, there are truths about Mary that… are going to be hard for you to hear.’

  The line of John’s smile is as taunt as a bowstring. ‘It’s fine. I think I’ve got the picture, anyway.’

  Pause. Reconsider. John’s posture is military, his eyes are absent and his jaw is locked. But, the more important data: he’s here. Deduction: pain, but acceptance. Ready to take action.  ‘Remarkably quick of you, John. Brilliant job.’ Sherlock grins. He has a strange urge to ruffle John’s hair, but keeps his hands to himself. ‘Now, the question is; what to do about it?’

  John’s face passes through several interesting emotions that Sherlock struggles to process. ‘I don’t know,’ he settles on saying. ‘How much do you want to…’

‘Well, we’ll have to kill her, I estimate.’ John’s looks startled. ‘Bit not good? Well, custody, then. The murder of Magnusson should be enough to put her behind bars, not to mention the additional attempted murder of London’s greatest Consulting Detective.’

  John shakes his head. ‘What?’ Is the most he manages to get out.

‘Me, John. I’m the Consulting Detective.’

‘No, I get that. But an unborn child hasn’t killed anyone, let alone you, _or_ Magnusson.’

‘Ah.’ Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. ‘I get the feeling we’re having two very different conversations.’

‘Sherlock,’ John starts, and Sherlock knows just form his tone that he’s not to interrupt this. ‘I’ve had a very long few days, okay? You got shot, you almost died in the ambulance, you _did_ die in the operating theatre, but somehow you pulled back from a fucking flat line and since then you’ve been laying here, on this fucking bed, for three and a half days, and every day you look more and more pale, and still, and dead. In the face of that, realising that you and Mary… well, you know.’ He sniffs with half of his nose, and the fist in his lap flutters through a clench. ‘It doesn’t matter. I honestly don’t care. I watched you die once, and it destroyed me. Sherlock, I cannot live through that again. You’re awake now, and I’m going to stick to all the bargains I made while you were under, okay? You’re back, so I don’t care about Mary. If you two want to play “happy families”, fine. Fine. Mary and I never were that good at it, anyway.’

  Sherlock waits a few beats to ensure that John has finished. ‘I’m very glad to hear that John,’ he starts, gently, softly, ‘but not for the reasons you’re imagining.’

  The hospital door swings open. Of course; a nurse should’ve been here minutes ago. But when Sherlock looks up, it’s not a nurse standing in the doorway. Or rather, only one of them is—possibly, who knows what’s a cover story and what’s not—a nurse.

‘Mary,’ John says.

‘Moriarty,’ Sherlock growls.

‘Janine,’ Janine adds, smiling. ‘What, I thought we were all saying one another’s names?’

‘Hey sleeping beauty,’ Moriarty sings. ‘Have you had true love’s kiss yet?’

‘Mary,’ John repeats, staring at his black-clad wife. She’s too busy pointing a gun at him to reply.

  While John’s distracted, Sherlock rips out his IVs. ‘How long have you been drugging me?’

‘Long enough, darling. I needed you distracted, that’s all. Setting up the chess pieces for our final problem took a while, couldn’t have you poking your pretty little nose into it, could we? Oh, don’t look so offended. It’s not much different to what you did to John here, now is it? Drugs in his tea, drugs in your IV, not much different at all. It even rhymes.’

  John’s on his feet, perfectly still. ‘The baby,’ he says.

‘Nice little touch, hmm?’ Agrees Moriarty. ‘I could’ve stopped at just giving you love, but a baby as well? Isn’t it brilliant? Doesn’t it hurt so much more when I take it all away?’

‘So it was fake then? The whole… the marriage, the pregnancy…’ John’s glare turns to Mary. ‘Are you seriously fucking telling me that you lied to me, this whole time?’

  Mary’s face doesn’t twitch. ‘Oh John. You were so easy.’

  Moriarty grins. ‘Ah, Sherlock, you’re figuring it out now, I can tell. Look at your brain go, it’s beautiful. Slower than mine, of course, and with those drugs in your system… eugh. But you’re getting there. Come on baby, come on, for me, you can do it…’

  John twitches.

‘Oh. Oh, that’s delightful. Delicious. Did your little pet just figure it out before you did, Sherlock?’

‘Shut up,’ Sherlock snaps. ‘Stop this.’

‘Oh no, no I’m having far too much fun. And the fun has just began, hasn’t it? Let me tell you what’s going to happen, Sherlock. I did promise to burn your heart out, didn’t I? I did promise. I told you, but did you listen? Here it is then; watch. Look at him. Married, expectant father, it’s all destroyed. He’s your heart, and his burning.’ Moriarty grins at John, looking him up and down like he’s assessing his outfit. ‘Janine, darling,’ he adds, ‘now’s a good time.’

  Janine takes her time pulling a gun from her purse. Sherlock struggles to move, but his limbs are too lethargic and the pain is too great. _Drugs_ , he knows. Memory drugs, for days, keeping him under, and now this. John doesn’t have his gun on him, and the only entrance to the room is blocked by Moriarty, Mary and Janine. He shifts closer to Sherlock’s bed, leaning across in front of him. Moriarty laughs. ‘He’s so slow, how can you stand having someone so slow around you so often, Sherlock? I’m not going to kill Sherlock, Johnny boy.’

  Janine lifts the gun.

‘I’m going to kill the love of your life.’

  The gun fires, and in the wake of it Mary’s lying in blood, shock in her already-glazing eyes. Bits of brain cling to the wall. Moriarty looks at John expectantly, his grin feline. ‘Doesn’t that hurt, Johnny boy? Doesn’t it just tear you open? Will you ever be able to love again, after this? Ever be able to trust? I think not. And Sherlock.’ Moriarty looks predatory, stalking closer to the bed. John backs away. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you left this mess behind? Your little… project… with Doctor Watson is clearly at a dead end.’

  Sherlock glares. ‘Missing the fact that Janine is your sister is an error on my part, I’ll admit, but you, Moriarty, have made the bigger error.’

‘Have I now?’

‘It’s the same error you always make.’

‘I don’t. Make. Errors,’ Moriarty hisses.

‘Oh no, you do. You just don’t realise them till it’s too late. For example, you have always, for some baffling reason, underestimated John.’ Sherlock nods to the end of the bed.

  Moriarty turns around. He’s greeted by the quietening sight of a gun barrel, pointing straight at his head. John’s steady hand is ready on the trigger. Janine lies unconscious on the ground. ‘I never liked you,’ John announces. ‘Any of you, really. I never liked you, or you,’ he nods to Janine and Moriarty, ‘and even you.’ The last nod is to Mary. ‘Moriarty, you thought killing Mary would hurt me? You thought she was the love of my life? By god, you’re the biggest, most colossal, fucking _idiot_ that I’ve ever met. Sherlock Holmes. I swore I’d say it if he ever woke up. I swore. I’ve meant to say this for years, but it never felt like the right time and I never thought… Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m doing it. Sherlock Holmes.’ John takes a deep breath. Sherlock feels close to flat lining again. ‘You. Are the love. Of my life.’

‘John,’ Sherlock manages to say.

‘No,’ Moriarty growls. ‘He’s mine. We’re perfect together. He’s was going to be a proper physcopath one day, but if I can’t have him—’ In one swift movement, Moriarty shifts a knife out of his sleeves and lifts it to the air, ready to slash down across Sherlock’s throat; but John’s a soldier. He has excellent reflexes. Moriarty’s brains pattern the window, and the knife falls harmlessly onto Sherlock’s lap.

‘John,’ Sherlock gasps, wondering why it seems to be the only thing he can say.

  John ignores him. Methodically, he goes around the room, checking each of their three visitors for signs of life. Only Janine is still breathing, and she’s nowhere close to waking up. Finally, John returns to Sherlock’s bed.

‘John,’ Sherlock tries one last time.

‘It’s okay,’ John stops him. ‘I know. I know you don’t… feel things that way. And if you did, Irene Addler, or Mary, or… there are people far more suited to you. So, it’s okay.’

‘No, John. Please. The fair sex are your department.’

‘Yes. Right. And neither sex is yours, which is okay, you know, I’ve looked it up. There’s a whole community, if you’re interested, asexual and aromantic people—’

‘Yes, but—’ Sherlock flutters his hands, at a loss. ‘John Watson. It’s you. It’s always you. You keep me right.’ Struggling, Sherlock reaches an arm towards John. The pain in his chest is two-fold. ‘Please. Come here.’

  John’s reluctant, but he makes it. Their hands link, and Sherlock squeezes. ‘John. My John. I have deleted solar systems. I have deleted presidents, and sisters—apparently. But I could never, ever, delete a single moment I have spent with you. I have built my mind palace around you. I have died for you. I have resurrected myself for you. Only you. With all this evidence, John, what can you deduce about my heart?’

  John closes his eyes. ‘Don’t do this, Sherlock, don’t say these things unless…’

‘I love you.’

  John shudders, so Sherlock says it again.

‘I love you.’

‘ _God_.’

‘No,’ Sherlock jokes. ‘Just me.’

  John huffs half a laugh, and shakes his head. He looks disbelieving, but he leans forward anyway. He hovers over Sherlock’s lips, bringing a hand to Sherlock’s cheek. ‘I’m not dreaming?’ He asks.

‘No,’ Sherlock promises. ‘And neither am I.’

  Finally, their lips meet; softly softly, gently gently.

  And they live happily ever after.

 


End file.
